


take me out (to the ballgame)

by playedwright



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Established Relationship, Fluff, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Reunions, Secret Relationship, Surprises, baseball games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24625888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playedwright/pseuds/playedwright
Summary: “These seats are fucking amazing,” Eddie breathes. He’s practically bouncing as he takes his seat. “Richie, what the fuck.”Richie grins wolfishly. “I did good, then?”Eddie reaches forward and squeezes Richie’s knee, and his stupid happy smile makes Richie’s toes curl just as well as a kiss would. “You did great. I’m really impressed.”“Aw, shucks,” Richie says. Eddie lets go of his knee. “Bet you say that to all the boys who take you to baseball games.”Eddie rolls his eyes. “Nah. Just the one.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 268





	take me out (to the ballgame)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandon/gifts), [AceEmerson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceEmerson/gifts).



> this fic is set in the universe of [saturday night love au](https://twitter.com/snlreddie), a social media au on twitter written by [@criesinkaspbrak](https://twitter.com/criesinkaspbrak) and [@LizzardEmily](https://twitter.com/LizzardEmily). it will probably make the most sense if you read the au, but for context if you haven't caught up, eddie is a famous actor who hosted an snl show, richie works for snl, and eddie and richie started dating afterwards. their relationship is not public yet. this is eddie's first time back in new york since hosting!
> 
> completely unoriginal title comes from the song by the same name of course :)

Richie feels nervous in a way that is borderline unreasonable.

He’s bouncing on the heels of his feet. In his hands is a hastily made construction paper sign. Red paper, which Richie thinks is fitting, all things considered. He opted to write  _ SHORTSTOP  _ in white, looping paint, large enough it almost takes up the whole thing. Richie had even doodled a little pizza in the corner early this morning, when he had been anxiously staring at the clock and urging it to go faster.

On the flight information display system that Richie’s been staring at for thirty minutes, the little letters next to Eddie’s flight number finally change to  _ landed. _

Richie lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

The tickets are in his back pocket. The jerseys he had bought for himself is back at his apartment. He hides the hat behind his poster. In a few short minutes, Eddie will deplane and make his way quickly out of the gate, and then hurry through the people with his hat pulled low and his sunglasses on, weaving his way through the other travelers to make his way to Richie. 

God, it’s a little embarrassing the way his heart skips a beat in his chest, like he’s thirteen years old again instead of in his thirties. But that’s the grand thing about Eddie, isn’t it? The way he makes Richie feel young again. The way the wrinkles around his eyes feel less like getting older and more like laughter lines.

“Hey, eyes on the prize, Trashmouth,” he hears a voice say, and somehow Richie had gotten so caught up in his own head that he’d missed Eddie making his way across the floor to him.

“Oh, so you’re admitting you’re the prize,” Richie says. He whistles lowly, quiet enough that only Eddie really can pick it up. “How could I ever take my eyes  _ off  _ the prize? Goddamn.”   
  


Eddie rolls his eyes. He lets go of his carry-on bag for long enough to close the space between him and Richie and tug Richie into a hug. It’s unbelievably good to feel Eddie against him again, comforting in ways Richie can’t ascertain. He squeezes Eddie as tightly as he can. “I miss you so much,” Eddie whispers, right into the shell of Richie’s ear. No one could hear them even if Eddie was wired.

“I missed you,” Richie repeats. He squeezes his eyes shut. “God, it’s good to see you. I love you.”

He feels Eddie laughing against him more than he can hear it. They allow themselves another beat to cling to one another before it feels like too much, and Eddie lets go. His face twists when he sees the poster in Richie’s hands. “You made me a poster?”

Richie raises it proudly. He keeps the hat hidden away behind it. “Fair’s fair, Shortstop, and you made me one first.”

“Well, thanks,” Eddie says, and there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. He extends his hand to take the poster. “I can keep that one, I guess. You kept the one I made you, didn’t you?”

Richie tugs the sign closer to him. Eddie gapes at him.

“What are you doing?” Eddie asks.

“You’re ruining my surprise,” Richie says conversationally. Eddie reaches for the sign again and Richie ducks out of the way. “Stop trying to ruin my surprise!”

“What surprise?!”

Richie laughs. “Do you know the definition of a surprise, Eds?”

Eddie scowls, and it’s a comical look when paired with his oversized glasses and baseball cap. “I’ve been in New York for two seconds, how do you already have something planned?”

“Oh my god, do you just want to know what it is?” Richie asks exasperatedly. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure how much longer he can keep it in, anyway. He’s terrible with surprises. And, if he’s still being honest, it’s not like he’s very good at denying Eddie things, anyway.

Eddie’s eyes narrow. Richie cannot comprehend how  _ fond  _ he feels. “What is it?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


The Yankees Stadium is  _ packed.  _ There’s an equal amount of Sox fans and Yankees fans around, which surprises Richie more than he thinks it should. Eddie seems right at home. He’s upsettingly cute in his Red Sox hat, even with his hair still wet from his shower underneath it, and the tight white shirt he’s wearing looks practically sinful on him. Richie feels slouchy next to him, wearing some ill-fitting Red Sox jersey he impulse-bought off of eBay, but as Eddie leads them down to their seats, Richie gets a few approving nods that make him feel better.

The seats are good. Of course they’re good. Richie impulse-bought these, too, looking at his various choices before deciding Eddie was the kind of guy who’d want to be close up to the action.

“These seats are fucking amazing,” Eddie breathes. He’s practically bouncing as he takes his seat. “Richie, what the fuck.”

Richie grins wolfishly. “I did good, then?”

They can’t kiss. Richie knows they can’t kiss. But Eddie reaches forward and squeezes Richie’s knee, and his stupid happy smile makes Richie’s toes curl just as well as a kiss would. “You did great. I’m really impressed.”

“Aw, shucks,” Richie says. Eddie lets go of his knee. “Bet you say that to all the boys who take you to baseball games.”

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Nah. Just the one.”

Richie’s insides are  _ warm. _

They spend the time before the game starts going over the basic rules, stuff Richie vaguely had an idea of but definitely needs to know before the game starts. Eddie, impressively, knows the stats for many of the Red Sox players. Richie’s incredibly endeared by it. All too soon, the loudspeakers blaring AC/DC start to dim, they stand for the national anthem, and as they take their seats again a voice comes over the speakers thanking sponsors. The Yankees take the field, and the first Sox batter makes his way out.

“Okay, that’s Chavez,” Eddie says, pointing. The batter takes a few practice swings before stepping into the box and getting into position. “He’s got a batting average of… oh, like, point-two-fifty-four?”

Richie raises an eyebrow. “Is that good?”

“Average,” Eddie says. He slaps a hand against Richie’s bicep and leans forward suddenly. “Shh, shh, it’s starting!”

“Calm down, soccer mom, they can’t hear us whispering from here,” Richie laughs, but he’s still quiet as the pitch is thrown. It’s called a ball. “Aren’t… they all balls? Is the pitcher out there throwing handkerchiefs?”

“Richie,” Eddie says exasperatedly. “Ball means it was thrown outside of the strike zone.”

Richie brushes his arm against Eddie’s. “I know that, Shortstop, cool down. You’re gonna blow a gasket. Oh, a swing and a miss!”

That one, at least, gets a laugh out of Eddie.

The game is fun, in a way Richie hadn’t really expected. This wasn’t for him, after all. It was one hundred percent for Eddie. Something to show Eddie he was loved. But the weather is nice and the crowd is really into the game.  _ Eddie  _ is really into the game.

“You call that a strike?!” Eddie yells, standing up from his chair and leaning forward. “I’ve met infants who could throw a better pitch than that! He couldn’t have hit that even if his bat was seven feet long!”

Richie, embarrassingly, feels hot under the collar at the sight of it.

Eddie’s still red-faced when he sits back down, apparently done with his rant at the umpire who most definitely couldn’t even hear him. He huffs angrily and double-takes when he realizes Richie is staring at him. “What?”

“Just,” Richie says. His mouth is dry. “You amaze me.”

“Shut up,” Eddie mutters, but he’s smiling even as he says it.

“Was the pitch really that bad?” Richie asks. The batter strikes out and the home team starts jogging towards their dugout.

Eddie shrugs. “Moreland probably could have hit it if he swung, but even if I’d had my eyes closed I would have been able to tell it was a ball.”

It’s a close game, and it’s almost amusing how tense Eddie gets throughout the whole thing. His rants get longer and more profane the longer the game goes on and the score stays the same. The Red Sox score first, then again, then in the next inning the Yankees get three batters home. The Red Sox get two, the Yankees get one, and so it goes on.

Richie’s arm is on fire from where Eddie keeps brushing against him. In one particularly brave moment, Richie presses his knee against Eddie’s. Something in his chest practically explodes when Eddie presses back harder. It’s a small thing, a little thing but it’s a connection and it’s  _ theirs.  _ Richie wouldn’t trade that for anything.

“Hey,” Richie says, after another inning passes and the Red Sox take the lead before taking the field. “What’s the pitcher’s name?”

“Chris Sale,” Eddie answers automatically.

Richie nods to himself. “Cool. Follow-up question, how do I get them to toss me one of those runaway balls?”

Eddie turns in his seat. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You know how sometimes in the kid movies that are made to make you cry, the kid goes to a baseball game and the ball goes perfectly to his little seat and it makes his entire life? How do I get one of those?”

Eddie’s looking at him like he’s an idiot, which is honestly one of Richie’s favorite expressions to see. “A foul ball?” he demands. “Is that what you mean? And you don’t get them to give one to you, it just happens, and it’s, like… literally probably a one in a hundred chance.”

“Those aren’t bad odds!”

“Richie, you aren’t gonna catch a foul ball,” Eddie sighs.

But Richie’s already standing, up and out of his seat and leaning forward, much to the dismay of the people sitting in front of them. He waves his arms from side to side, as if there’s any chance of getting the pitcher’s attention from here anyway, and yells,  _ “YO, CHRIS SALE, I HAVE A POINT TO PROVE! THROW ME A BONE HERE!” _

Mortified, Eddie gets two fistfuls of Richie’s jersey and tugs him forcefully down into his seat. His face is bright red, eyes alit, but even with the embarrassment pouring off of him in waves he’s grinning from ear to ear. “Sit the  _ fuck  _ down, what is wrong with you?” he snaps. His stern tone is ruined by the laughter in his voice. “You can’t just tell the pitcher to throw you a ball!”

“I work for SNL and you’re a huge movie star, people are practically begging to give us free stuff,” Richie argues. “Wow, god, that made me sound like a douche, but I have a point and you know it. If anyone could just  _ tell  _ the pitcher to throw you a ball, it would be us.”

“You’re so stupid,” Eddie tells him. But he puts his hand on Richie’s thigh and squeezes subtly, and Richie takes it for what it is: a reminder that Eddie loves him. Maybe even a hint of a suggestion that if they weren’t in public, Eddie would kiss him senseless right now.

And either Richie’s half-assed monologue was right or someone in the universe decided to let him have this one, because after Sale strikes out three batters back to back, he passes nearby where Richie and Eddie are sitting and throws them a ball with a smile on his face.

Richie catches it with both of his hands, just to be safe.

“Holy fuck,” Eddie breathes.

Richie plops back down into his seat. He’s kind of impressed that he caught it at all, if he’s being honest, but his satisfaction at himself is quickly replaced with a feeling he can’t quite name when he catches sight of the brilliant grin on Eddie’s face.

“Told ya I was gonna catch you a runaway ball,” Richie says smugly.

Eddie takes it reverently out of Richie’s hands, like it’s something precious and not just a bundle of rubber and yarn and cowhide.

But  _ god, _ if Richie’s being honest, he’d pay for everything all over again just for a chance to relive this moment.

“I love you,” Eddie whispers. Quietly, so it’s only picked up by the two of them. If Richie didn’t know better, he might think that Eddie was saying it to the ball. Richie pats Eddie’s knee and bumps their shoulders together again.

“My pleasure, Shortstop,” he says honestly.

The game goes on. Eddie nearly falls into the people in front of them once again when the Yankees pitcher throws a wild pitch that hits the Red Sox batter in the knee. He stands up out of his seat so quickly that Richie is pretty sure he’s got whiplash, but when he looks up to watch Eddie scream, he realizes that Eddie has turned his baseball cap backwards for some unknown reason. Probably to give Richie a heart attack and no other reason at all.

He can’t even hear the words Eddie is yelling, though he can see Eddie’s mouth moving, spitfire and no doubt terrifying to anyone listening. A strand of hair is pinned to his forehead, not pulled back from the rest of it. His cheeks are pink from exertion. The white shirt stretches tight over his shoulders as he jabs in the air to emphasize whatever point he was making.

All Richie can hear is static. He thought that was just a cliché, something people say but never actually happens. Vaguely, as Eddie practically collapses back into his seat, Richie’s hearing starts to clear.

He’s still staring at Eddie, though. No, the proper word is probably  _ devouring.  _ He needs to look away. He needs to chill the hell out before someone snaps a picture and the tabloids get the wrong idea. He needs to shake himself out of it before he horrifyingly pops a stiffy just at the sight of Eddie in a  _ backwards baseball cap. _

Eddie catches him. “What?” he says defensively. “That pitch was deliberate, you could fucking tell!”

Richie’s mouth opens and closes a few times but nothing comes out. That was another thing he used to think was just a cliché. It’s kind of amazing the things that Eddie brings out in him. Richie lifts his hand and gestures vaguely. “Uh. Hat.”

“Hat?” Eddie repeats, confused. Richie manages to point, and Eddie’s hand flutters uselessly to his hat. “Oh. Have you never seen anyone wear a baseball cap backwards before? That’s a perfectly reasonable thing for people to do, Richie. How many rocks did you live under as a kid?”

Richie lets out an impatient sound. Eddie doesn’t  _ get it.  _ He doesn’t understand that the way he looks to Richie right now is so undeniably hot that Richie feels like he needs to go take a  _ jog.  _ He pulls out his phone. He can’t say it, he won’t, because he wants to protect Eddie in every way he can, but he can text Eddie, so he pulls up their message chain and sends off a brief text,  _ sexy. it’s sexy shortstop. _

Eddie’s cheeks flush when he reads the text from his own phone. He rolls his eyes and mutters, “Idiot,” but Richie’s phone chimes with Eddie’s response, and his entire body flushes when he reads what Eddie sends back.

“Minx,” Richie breathes out. Eddie grins again. He doesn’t turn his hat back the right way, though.

They get recognized during the ninth inning, when the Red Sox are up to bat, or maybe someone recognized them earlier and didn’t care, but these people tentatively tap Eddie’s on the shoulder and shyly ask if he’d be okay if they took a picture with him and Richie. There’s a vein in Eddie’s forehead that very briefly looks like it’s going to pop at the idea of taking his eyes off the game for one minute, but he’s a good man so he agrees. His grin is bright and happy in the selfie, next to Richie’s goofy one.

“It’s cool that you guys stayed friends after Eddie was on that one SNL episode,” says the one with the blue hair. She signs as she talks, and her friend watches and nods in agreement. “Or, I guess, wait. Maybe you guys were friends before. I shouldn’t assume, I’m sorry.”

“All good,” Richie says easily. “We’ve been friends for a while. I’m lucky he lets me annoy the shit out of him any time he comes to my neck of the woods.”

Blue Hair smiles at him. “That’s what I say about my best friend, too. They live in Texas.”

“Oh hell yeah, long distance best friends solidarity,” Richie says. He holds his hand up for a high-five, and grins when she excitedly meets it. “Alright, I’m gonna let you guys get back to the game, mostly cause I think Shortstop over here is gonna blow a gasket if I keep him distracted from the end of the game.”

Eddie grunts. “Bases are  _ loaded,  _ Richie.”

“It is a very intense game,” Blue Hair agrees. Her friend signs something to Richie, and she translates, “It’s been very entertaining watching Eddie Kaspbrak stand up and yell. I don’t know what he’s saying, but I know I agree.”

Richie laughs. “He’s an intense dude. Hey, it was nice to meet you guys, though, for real.”

They don’t get another chance to talk, because the stadium is filled with a satisfying  _ crack  _ of a bat making contact, and Richie turns around just in time to see the ball soar into the crowd. Eddie’s on his feet in a second, and somehow he manages to grab a fistful of Richie’s jersey again on his way up because he takes Richie with him.

“A fucking  _ grand slam,  _ he hit a grand slam!” Eddie shouts. The batter that had been on third base makes it home.

Eddie’s still yelling, louder and more excitedly with each batter that makes it home. By the time the hitter crosses the plate, Eddie’s sentences have become incoherent. He’s still got a death grip on Richie’s jersey.

Richie wouldn’t trade this moment for anything in the world.

The Red Sox fans in the stands are going insane, as the hitter makes it back to the dugout and his teammates tug him into a celebratory group hug. It’s a thrilling energy, even if Richie doesn’t truly understand why. He feels very lucky to be here. Lucky he gets to share it with Eddie. He doesn’t think it would mean as much if Eddie weren’t here.

In a moment of bravery on Eddie’s part, he tugs Richie into a hug, crushing their bodies together and pulling Richie’s head down so he can whisper in his ear, “Thank you,  _ thank you,  _ thank you. This is the best fucking gift ever. I love you. I love you.”

Richie squeezes his arms around Eddie’s waist. “I love you,” he whispers back. He breaks them apart and watches, content, as Eddie celebrates a little while longer.

The rest of the game feels anticlimactic after that, with the Red Sox up by five points. They get their third out, but there isn’t much hope in the Yankees fans when their team takes the plate. Even Richie can figure out that scoring five points right now would be pretty damn hard. It’s a bit too early to celebrate a victory, but Richie feels it in his chest anyway. He knows it’s probably got nothing to do with the game.

Eddie does cheer, again, when a Yankees batter hits a pop fly that goes straight into the left outfielder’s glove, bringing their out count to three. The game is over. Eddie’s on his feet, clapping and cheering them on as the Red Sox celebrate on the field. Richie claps along too.

People around them start to collect their things and leave. When Eddie sits back down, he puts a hand on Richie’s thigh and says, “The fireworks are next. Think we can stay?”

“I would love to stay and watch things explode in the sky with you, Spaghetti,” Richie says sincerely. They don’t have to wait long, before the lights in the stadium dim almost completely, and the first firework launches. It fills up the night sky, vibrant red. Richie smiles. He’s always loved fireworks.

Eddie’s hand finds his in the dark. It’s brief, and it’s tentative, but Eddie twines their fingers together while they have a moment where no one can see, and he squeezes gently. Richie’s responding smile takes up his whole face.

They make it about halfway through the fireworks, after Eddie lets go of his hand but their knees keep bumping and their shoulders keep bumping, before Eddie leans into his space and whispers, “Take me home, Rich.” 

God, Richie’s body is  _ electric,  _ lighting up viscerally in response. He grabs Eddie’s arm and tugs them both up, careful to let go before they start walking. Eddie’s hot on his trails the whole way up the stairs regardless.

It’s practically deserted as they make their way out, everyone distracted by the fireworks for long enough that not many people are leaving. Richie stumbles towards a stairwell. He pulls out his phone to order them the Uber.

But the door slams behind him and Eddie when they make it to the stairwell, and it echoes in a way that tells them both they are entirely alone. Richie barely has one second to hit confirm before Eddie is backing him up into the door and putting his hands on Richie’s hips.

“Did I tell you this was the best surprise I’ve ever been given already?” Eddie asks. His voice is low.

Richie gulps. “You may have mentioned it.”

“God, you drive me wild,” Eddie says. “Your fucking… broad shoulders in this fucking jersey,  _ Jesus.  _ Do you even know how hard it was for me not to kiss you senseless every time I looked at you?”

His throat is dry. Richie gulps. “Like you have any room to talk. That backwards baseball cap look nearly knocked me the fuck out. You did that specifically to give me a heart attack. Don’t deny it.”

Eddie’s grin is smug. “Can’t believe that’s what gets you hot and bothered.”

“Eds, baby, how many times do I gotta tell you?  _ Everything  _ about you gets me hot and bothered.”

Eddie cups Richie’s face in both of his hands. “I’m in love with you,” he says simply. Like it’s as easy a thing to do as breathing. It’s not even the first time he’s said it, but Richie’s heart is exploding inside of him. The fireworks going on in the world outside of them have  _ nothing  _ on the fireworks inside his chest. “You make me so happy. You know that?”

“I’m in love with you,” Richie gasps, and desperation consumes him in a wave. He leans forward enough so that he can finally,  _ finally  _ kiss Eddie, after waiting longer than he can even fucking count. Eddie responds with enthusiasm. He always does, every time they’ve kissed. He meets Richie in the middle every time.

It’s not a kiss that’s leading anywhere; how could it be, with where they are? It’s nothing more than two mouths pressed together, every ounce of love between them being communicated through kiss after kiss. Richie goes pliant, after a while, in a way he always does. Happy to let Eddie kiss him, happy to let go, just happy to  _ be  _ here at all. He didn’t know this level of happiness was even possible. He hopes it never stops.

He’s content to stay there for a while, and he probably would if his phone didn’t chime in his hand. No doubt the notification from their Uber driver, whose most likely approaching and ready to pick them up.

“We gotta go,” Richie says against Eddie’s mouth. “Let me take you home.”

“What a line,” Eddie whispers. “That's the best you got?”

Richie laughs. He kisses Eddie again. “Oh, baby, you know it isn’t. But this isn't a line. Let me take you home. I wanna hold you for real. Jesus, there’s. There’s a lot of shit I want, Eds. You know that, right?”

Eddie just smiles. “I know,” he promises. He steps away from Richie but extends their hands and waits until Richie meets him and twines their fingers together. “So go ahead, then. Take me home.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [tumblr](https://rchtoziers.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/SPACERICHlE) if you want to come say hello!


End file.
